Editing
by katiekitten
Summary: ---


**All the Small Things.**

The bright stage light glared into his face, flaring off his tangled halo of roan hair as he squinted through heavy eyelashes at the silhouetted form beside the lamp; attempting and ultimately failing, to glare furiously at the suited man who'd brought him here. He was in deep sh*t, he knew that at least; _more_ than deep sh*t, for when his mother figured out that not only had he continued to support the cause ("protesting for the sake of making noise is _not_ a cause," as she'd shouted at him one night. Pff. As if she knew anything), but managed to get himself into the middle of a large scale riot in town square and carted off by the _CIB_…

It was not going to be pretty. Several of his favourite CDs would probably be among the casualties.

The pathetic 'Central Intelligence Bureau' could not even hope to compare.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, (or as much as he could shift while being shackled to the steel chair) he continued his silent challenge, wrists sore from the metal chaffing at his wrists.

When they'd first caught him earlier that day, flat on his back in the briar patch he'd been shoved into by an over-enthusiastic rioter, he'd been absolutely terrified, stricken silent by these black suited men who'd grabbed his arms and hauled him into a black car, all the while informing him that he was being taken for questioning to the CIB HQ, that he had the right to remain silent, that those rights had been revoked due to the nature of his possible crimes and he was 'in a hell of a lot of trouble, son.' That fear had, in fact, faded two hours ago to the minute- long after he'd been jammed into this chair in the first place and had a lamp shoved in his face. For in that long, _long_ period of time between then and now, he'd just sat here. In silence. Watched, constantly, by mister megalomania, who, it seemed, got off from the fact that he could just stick someone in a room and blind them for hours on end.

Apparently, he'd been named as one of the conspirators in a plot to break into a military facility and sabotage the bombers that were being used in the war in Iraq. But while he himself _was_ a firm protester against the war, (it was that sort of bloomin' thing that made Dad leave, but they didn't know that) he was not suicidal, despite what his twin insisted.

Unfortunately, though, his infuriated shouts of this and the fact that he wanted a lawyer did not go down well with the suits cooped up in the back of the black car with him, watching him moodily through their shiny, men-in-black sunglasses.

Which was why he was here.

Waiting.

He kicked his feet idly for a few more seconds, boredom slowly and surely seeping through his brain and turning it into mush. He was sick of the hand cuffs, sick of this chair, sick of this _room_-! Especially, he mentally added, the sadistic little sh*te over there who would just not stop shining that _bloody light in his bloody face_, despite of all of his thoughtful complaints and derogative comments-

snick

There was a muffled clatter, echoing emptily across the short space as suddenly the door opened, causing him to jolt in his seat as a stream of cold, artificial light splayed across the floor. Freezing as the lamp darted away from his face and to the person behind him (it wasn't as if he could look around anyway, not with the way he was bolted to this chair), he strained his ears to hear the muffled words of the speaker, blinking as light spots danced across his eyes.

"Is this Michael Hickory's interrogation room?" A low voice drawled behind him, their owner's shadow cutting through the door's light and stretching out before Michael's feet. The boy could now just see the Megalomania-dude's nod, the clichéd sunglasses glinting slightly with the movement.

"Delightful."

Slow steps trailed into the room as the now unsupported door slammed shut, the light it let in cutting off shortly with it and returning the room to almost complete darkness. Megalomania-dude began to swing the lamp back into Michael's eyes before a tired mutter and a subtle snap brought back the overhead lights, rendering the lamp, much to Michaels delight, useless. Megalomania scowled.

"The child is under suspicion for committing three high-class felonies." Megalomania said stiffly, casting Michael a disdainful glare. "I'm sure you appreciate the seriousness of this case."

The new comer sighed and strode into Michael's line of sight, the boy's eyes narrowing at the man's pinstriped back as he stopped in front of him, odd silver hair brushing his wrinkled suit collar.

"And I'm sure you'll appreciate my client-clientele confidentiality," the man rebuked. "Now, if you would kindly make your way to the door, I believe it would be beneficial for us all if you allow me to speak to my client."

Megalomania frowned, opening his mouth to say something else before apparently thinking the better of it, jaws coming together with a small snap as he turned and strode out of the room with not as much as a second glance at the boy in the chair. As the door latched closed behind him, Michaels impromptu saviour sagged, shoulders relaxing, before he turned to his apparent 'client'.

"Hello, Michael," he greeted with an exhausted half smile, his tired features nevertheless proclaiming him to be only twenty. "I will be representing you as your lawyer for the time being. You may call me Gary."

Michael blinked.

---

Of all of the things a certain Gareth Theodore Rasputin, Junior could have expected when he walked into his office with his coffee that sunny Monday afternoon, this was most certainly, irrevocably, almost _inconceivably_ not one of them. It was incomprehensible; unexpected and a downright _joke_, to say the least, and he had half a mind to just toss his entire mug of coffee at the smug balding man before him as he sat, pleasantly making himself comfortable, in _his_ chair.

"Theodore! Welcome back. We were wondering where you'd got to."

Forcing a smile onto his face and wondering if the vein above his eye was twitching again, Gary forced himself to calmly enter the room, shooting a deadpan look of incredulity at his suspiciously calm secretary as his exulted father looked down, and, to his consternation, began flicking through the sheets on his forever untidy desk.

"Father."

He didn't even attempt to hide his lack of enthusiasm as he slowly approached the desk, hands slipping despondently into the pockets of his jacket in a half-hearted search for a cigarette as he regarded the destruction that had become his office. His lighter, he noted with great disdain, imagining that lazy elbow push it off the table, lay now out of reach, near the window of the sparsely furnished room, and, ever so conveniently, blocked by his father's all encompassing, _gigantium_ form. Completely and futiley out of reach.

Perfect.

His father looked up at his son's voice and ceased his reading, opting to instead lean his elbows gently on top of a stack of files – Gary winced as the papers crumpled and wrinkled under the weight - and regard his flesh and blood with a thoughtful, hazel eye, double chin rippling as he sank further into it.

"…How long have you been running your…" He waved a hand grandly to indicate the shabby office, pausing and biting his lip in exaggerated thought – his father, the failed actor - as he searched for an appropriate term. "…business, now, son?"

Gary scowled, resisting the inexplicable urge he always got when his father was around to just _stab_ something, preferably him, and stiffly replied. "A year now, father. And it's a Detective Agency."

Gary Senior flapped his hand again, dismissing his son's reminder and managing to just annoy said son more. "Of course, of course. And how many cases have you had sent into this... agency?"

The younger man shifted slightly in discomfort, fighting to maintain contact with his father's infuriatingly knowing gaze and yet stubbornly refuse to answer at the same time, a difficult feat. His dear secretary replied instead, the spoken total yet again not failing to make him wince, the number a harsh blow to his confidence. And in truth, one of those so called cases was from his mother, asking him to find her a cheap limo service to take her to one of her country clubs. Life's hard on the beginner detective.

"Five."

There was a brief silence as his father digested this information, filled only by the broken tick of the old clock that was hammered belatedly into the wall. Gaze sliding unconsciously back to his feet, Gary predicted his father's response, the inevitable, back-breakingly stupid _pity_ his father always felt was appropriate, teeth gritting bitterly with anger towards himself as he thought of his own failure. This was hardly the 'wealthy, respected PI office' he'd promised his father it would be when he left the CIB last year to freelance, and this fact cut his pride into tiny, miserably streamers and proceeded to burn them gleefully in front of his face.

"…I hardly expect you'd consider returning to your former post?" Gary Senior said at last, grey eyes acknowledging as he said it the expected refusal in his son's gaze as they snapped up to his, flaring with barely contained anger, and he sighed, levering himself a little higher in the lumpy chair. "Then I have a proposal for you."

He laughed suddenly as his son's brow furrowed suspiciously, the young man considering him with a cautious, wary expression and he waved it away, chuckling still as he reached into his pocket to lay a piece of paper on the desk. Smoothing it with pudgy fingers as Gary Junior approached, he handed it to him with a grin, eyes twinkling with age-old mischief.

"I hav- _we_ have, the CIB, a task for you." He informed him, once again resting his elbows on the table as Gary examined the paper, eyebrows raising briefly at the 'confidential' stamp across the top before he dedicated himself to paying attention to the message. "In return, we will mention you and your business to our clients throughout the world, including the Jhoto government, as a reliable and reputed detective whose help has enabled us to prevent and protect them from possible terrorist threats-"

Gary, who'd raised his now-cool coffee to take a sip while reading the assignment, chose this moment to abruptly inhale the liquid and start choking.

"You want me to do _what_?" He wheezed after gulping down half of his coffee, slamming the paper onto the desk and pushing it away from him as if it were a death warrant, not a simple job. His father watched him with raised eyebrows as he coughed and sputtered: "I'm a private detective, not a lawyer; or even an actor, for that matter."

"All we ask is that you talk to the boy for a little while. Play the part; drag everything out so we have the time to catch this guy. He's been an unknown factor for years, and we've only just collected this amount about him. This is our one and only chance; he won't fall for this again. Think about it."

Gary stared at his father as he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the last dregs of coffee in his lungs as he tried to pierce through his fathers oh-so-casually composed expression to the mind behind it. What on earth was his old man trying to do? A long moment passed, where no-one said anything at all, before-

A resigned sigh, a set of shoulders slumping in defeat. "…And you couldn't find anyone else, father?"

Smiling at his son's unwilling concession, expression returning once more to its smug complacency, the elder sat back in his adopted seat comfortably once more, pleased with the result.

"Who can I trust more than my own son?"

---

And so here he was, faux briefcase, usual suit, (albeit a cleaner, more wrinkly variation – he knew it was a good idea to buy several of the first outfit. The coffee stains were going to take forever to get out of the original one...) hair slicked back in a half-attempt to create the sense of pompous knowledge all lawyers seemed to carry with them in one supposed perfect whole. He wasn't new to the law career, he'd studied it in Hoenn for a year before deciding himself completely adverse to the entire shebang and going into the CIB under his fathers influence, so he knew the basics; enough, he hoped, to fool a sixteen-year-old boy that he was who he claimed to be. The teenager before him seemed convinced enough, at least, if the slight relief on the boy's features was any sign. Gary raised his eyebrows at the cuffs around the boy's – Michael, was it? – wrists, chaining him to the chair. The CIB were certainly not ones to skimp on the details.

Allowing himself a final sigh, he looked around for a chair and, spotting it, dragged it over, mindless of the slow screech of the legs against the floor, propping it before the kid before slumping into it. If he was going to do this, he was going to do so with as least discomfort as possible. God, he could use a smoke right now.

The boy, he decided, looked a little more than worse for wear, his jeans and grey hoodie caked in mud, dust, and what looked like spilt ice-cream across the shoulders, the hood pulled back to reveal a shaggy mane of roan hair, complimented by nevertheless bright green eyes and delicate features. The boy's expression, however, was a severe contrast to the apparent serenity of his face; a meld of fury, boredom and almost unquenchable confusion.

"So, Michael," Gary began, resting his hands loosely on his knees as he prepared himself to console an emotional, tired, delicate boy who'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. From the look of things, he was going to have an easy ride with this. Perfect. "I know you're a little confused, but know that everything is going to be alright. We'll get this mess all strai-"

"I'm more than just confused." The boy snorted, tossing his head to the side proudly and giving him a look of utter contempt. "_You_ try being grabbed by a bunch of oafs, shoved into a car, dragged on your a** to kingdom come and shoved in a cell with a light shone in your face for no reason at all. _Then_ you can tell me that I'm 'a little confused.'"

Gary blinked at the boy's harsh tone, slightly thrown off, before his eyes narrowed lazily and he casually kicked his legs out before him.

"Is that so?"

Michael's answering brutal smile was filled with venom, and Gary raised an eyebrow, irritation rising at the boy's attitude to someone who was supposed to help him. Suppressing it easily with the thought of the cases this job was going to give him, he decided to throw aside the introductions and get to business.

Or pretend to at least. It's not as if this situation was real, after all.

"So tell me the circumstances of your arrest," Gary asked casually, crossing his arms and considering the boy, watching as Michael scowled at the question and attempted to shift in his seat, only to have his movement prohibited by the hand cuffs. He really was going to have to get them to remove them later. "And don't forget; it's to your advantage to tell me the truth. I am bound by law to never repeat anything you say to me as my client."

…Bound enough. It wasn't as if he'd tell anyone, anyway.

"I was… at a protest against the Orange wars, with the group 'H8 Breeds War'. There was a large group of us, so the police were called to keep an eye on us, and someone threw the first stone. It became an all-out riot. I'd just been pushed to the side of the crowd when the suits," the boy's eyes darkened with fury as he mentioned the CIB, Gary noted amiably, "picked me up and dragged me here."

Gary's other eyebrow rose to join the other. This boy was in no way the delicate thing he'd thought he was.

"And was this the first protest you'd been to?" He wanted to know, interested. Michael's eyes slid to the left once more.

"No."

Gary resisted the urge to grind his teeth at the short, useless answer and working on suppressing the twinge of annoyance that rose with it, desperate to reach his eye to start twitching it maniacally, instead trying again. "How long have you been a member of 'H8 Breeds War'?"

"'Long time."

"…And how long is a long time?" He really was starting to get irritated now.

"Year or so."

Gary sighed. Michael remained in place, glaring at him dutifully from his seat, although why, for the love of pete, he was glaring at _him_ made no sense at all. The boy'd asked for a lawyer, and here one was (for all the kid knew anyway). So why the animosity? He wanted a conversation, not an interrogation.

Grimacing, Gary decided to go for another tactic.

"Look. Michael," he started again, shifting in his seat and leaning forward to look the boy in the eye, in an attempt to seem lawyer-y and assertive, "I am here to help you, as your lawyer, get out of this mess. But if you won't talk to me, with words other than monosyllables, kid, there's no point me being here."

He let his words sit for a moment, meeting the kid's stony glare, before giving him what he thought – hoped - to be a cheery smile and sitting back again.

"So, Michael," he began breezily, arms crossing loosely over his chest once more as the kid seemed suitably less stubborn and more willing, "Tell me, from the beginning…"

---

It wasn't as if Michael had ever expected much in life.

His father'd left when he and his sister were just turning two, chasing long destroyed dreams of glory in the skirmishes in Gaza to disappear in a raid a year later, presumed dead, his dog tags being the only thing they ever found. Ever since then, or at least as far back as Michael remembered, his mother had never spoken of him, even when pressed to; all photos of the man she'd obviously once loved removed and hidden.

(Michael'd always found that bewildering. Was she ashamed of him for leaving? According to his grandfather, whose tongue loosened after his first glass of rum, his father had been a loose cannon, always raring to go, pushing himself to the limit in search of new challenges. It was this that led him to join the army, despite his wife's wishes, and after that his wife would have nothing more to do with him.)

(He got that, in a way. War was a violent, horrible thing, and the fact that dad had been practically supporting it would've angered her. But his mother wasn't one to hold a grudge, was she?)

Anyhow, it was because of his mother that Michael found himself hating the war in the orange islands, primarily for the fact that it was something like that which had taken his father away. It was why he'd joined the 'H8 Breeds War' group, actually. To fight against the thing that tore families apart –he refused to think of his own in this way- and caused the mindless destruction of homes and land for the simple sake of a few measly feet. Pointless and never-endingly horrific.

(He liked to think Dad would be proud.)

His mother herself was a self pronounced eco-warrior (AKA One Who Goes By The Rule: If it's yellow, let it mellow, if it's brown, wash it down), a renowned skint-flint who'd forced him to get a job at the tender, impressionable age of fifteen by refusing to buy him anymore CDs.

(He hadn't been asking for much, seriously.)

His grades had been starting to slump as of late, not that he really cared- except for the fact that his afore mentioned mother, who, infuriatingly, really wanted to see her only son through high school, at least, had lately taken to grounding him if he came home with anything less than a C.

It was therefore no surprise he found no comfort from his academic sister, who instead seemed to strive to be a constant source of biting sarcasm and constant criticism, much to his annoyance.

But still.

Was it too much to ask to get a reasonable lawyer?

Because seriously, he was becoming increasingly skeptical that this prematurely aged, wrinkly-pinstripe suit was, in actual fact, a lawyer. For from all that he knew, (an image gleaned from countless 'Law and Order' reruns) lawyers were not supposed to be slouching, verging-on-lazy twenty-year olds, dressed in, as he said before, a wrinkled, slightly musty pin-striped suit that stank of cigarettes. Lawyers weren't supposed to smoke in general, their already raging blood pressures so delicate that a single suck of a cigarette could send them into an almost permanent coma, if not into cardiac arrest and an earlier grave than the one they were already destined.

But apparently Gary wasn't concerned about that, as not more than half-an-hour into their almost non-existent conversation, he'd announced that he 'needed a smoke' and abandoned Michael as he left the room to do so.

The b*stard.

His thoughts were curtailed by the steady creak of the only door, Michael's expression contorting into one of utter disrespect as his lawyer sauntered back to his seat with a contented sigh, leaving the door to slam itself shut with a jolting thud. Nose wrinkling as the unforgettable stench of cigarettes once more reached him, Michael shifted in his seat, rattling his cuffs for added affect.

"Are they going to remove these or what? It's not like I'm about to run, or anything. I'm not that stupid."

Gary, his tired expression slowly dawning into surprise- Michael resisted the urge to twitch- stopped a few feet beside him, regarding him with a lazy eye.

"I already asked," he said with an air of exasperation, reaching behind him blindly for the chair's arms as he slumped into his seat, shifting until he was comfortable for the longest, most infuriating time before he met his client's irritable eyes with a smile, waving a key at him. "But there are rules, unfortunately, which that sunglasses-obsessed guard insists I tell you before unlocking you."

Michael scowled. "Seriously?"

His irritation rose at the laidback way his so-called lawyer leant back in his chair and lazily crossed his arms behind his head, and he struggled to keep his cool, limiting himself to only shooting the elder man a furious glare.

"Yeah," the c*ck-up of a lawyer drawled, kicking his feet out in front of him and destroying any last shreds of respect Michael had for him, "Beginning with this: You may not leave this room-"

Michael's expression immediately became murderous, furious thoughts piling in his head as he opened his mouth to start voicing –shouting- his opinions on said rule before Gary's raised hand forced him to shut it again.

"-EXCEPT to go to the bathroom, in which case the guard will escort you there and back. Now I don't know about you, but considering the slightly perturbing little smile the guard gave when he said that, I reckon it's in your best interest to not push it." He lowered his hand and gave the boy a grin, blatantly ignoring Michael's glare in response.

"Secondly, and most unfortunately, I have to be in here the entire time with you." He sighed dramatically at that, smile fading slightly. Michael allowed himself a small, vicious grin. He knew what that meant.

No more smoking breaks.

(Served him right, the idiot).

"I cannot leave at any point. That was all I could negotiate it to. And trust me, I tried. When I first brought it up, he wanted himself to be in the room at all times, but I talked him out of it. He'd just kill the mood."

That comment pushed Michael's already stretched patience over the edge. "What mood?" he bit out through gritted teeth, temper pulsing in un-restrained waves through him as he tried to spear the other man with his deadly, loathing glare. "The only 'mood' in here is me, despising you. Nothing else, you bloody pansy."

Gary laughed at that, although the sound of it was slightly forced, the boy noted with furious, slightly sick satisfaction. "If you want him in here again, that's fine with me," he told the boy frankly, his smile tilting infuriatingly –he was doing it on purpose, Michael swore he was- in an adult's condescension of a child, "I just didn't think you enjoyed the lamp being shoved in your face. But, I've been wrong before..."

Michael scowl turned sour as he switched his gaze to the wall above the wall, stubborn to the last and deciding to ignore the other man instead.

"And," Gary continued, a trace of anger slipping past his control and into his tone, darkening it; Michael felt his gaze drawn inexplicably back to the other man's hardening one, "we won't get along very well if you continue to insult me." He shifted in his seat, arms falling to rest lightly on arms of the chair, knuckles pressing slightly against the skin as he grasped the edges a little harder than necessary. "I am here as your lawyer, not your jailer, and frankly, I have no real obligation to stay. All I have to do is say that I am unable to take the case and poof! I'm gone. And I'm sure the guard out there would be happy to replace me in watching over you, especially so as the state searches to find another lawyer willing to take up as disastrous a case as yours."

Michael stiffened at the dark truth behind those words, staring at the man in wide-eyed shock- anger and slight fear as well as an overwhelming sense of injustice bubbling to the forefront of his mind.

"But I'm bloody innocent!" He exclaimed, arms straining once more against the cuffs as he strove to impress this fact upon his lawyer. Gary shrugged indifferently, that cool, steadily hardening gaze never leaving him as his smile turned into a half-hearted one of fake pity.

"I know. But it still doesn't change the fact that they have some very convincing evidence against you." His smile widened. "And I must admit, your active participation in the violence-inclined, verging on terror group 'H8 Breeds War' doesn't really help your case."

Michael winced, trying and failing to hide the reaction as he scrambled for the words to prove his innocence, to tell this man that he truly had nothing to do with the plot. Cursing himself, (he'd always known that would bite back one day, but he never, ever expected it to happen in something like _this_) he struggled to overcome the bone chilling fear that had started to settle in his stomach, dragging his heart down there with it. "That's different," he settled with finally, growling as he seethed, eyes still open wide with barely contained fear.

Gary raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Because I don't _do_ anything like that!" Michael was starting to panic, the thought of going to jail for a crime he didn't commit melding with his anger, fuelling it, throwing his mind into a chaotic nightmare as his imagination played out his possible future, heart sinking lower as he paled.

"But why would they believe you?" Michael fidgeted, his emotions fighting for dominance inside of him. "You've been to the rallies, been involved with some pretty deep campaigns; why wouldn't you be apart of this one-?"

"Because it goes against everything I'm fighting for!" Michael was damn near shouting now, tears springing to his eyes unbidden. He… was innocent. Innocent as anyone could be. Why couldn't they see that? Why couldn't they bloody let him go? "Because that's what they're doing! Why the hell would I do anything like tha-"

"But why wouldn't you?" Gary asked again, infuriatingly cool gaze placed solidly on him. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because that's what happened to Dad, that's why!" He shouted, no- screamed at him, fear twisting his features into a pale mask of what it once had been, confidence in himself and the situation shot to limp, bloody pieces. "I would never, ever, do anything that might mak-" He broke off suddenly as he realised what he had said, lowering his gaze to the floor, teeth gritting as he glued his mouth shut. He could still feel Gary's cool gaze on him, silent, waiting as he gathered himself together, forcing himself to calm down, his breathing and pulse to slow.

"…Because it's in doing something like that; fighting, killing anyone and anything who gets in the way of the goal - that is exactly what they are doing. The generals. The army in the Orange Islands. Exactly what I'm standing against." He muttered brokenly, blinking away his tears, realising belatedly, as if watching the scene and himself from a distance, and what the elder man had done- manipulated him into telling him what he wanted to know. Eyes squinting shut for a couple seconds, he once more reined in his emotions, tempering them, before he raised his head to stare resolutely into the other man's eyes, defiance flickering dully to life once more. "Happy now?"

Gary simply returned his gaze, face expressionless, as Michael rattled the cuffs around his wrists again pointedly. Slowly pulling himself to his feet, the elder man approached and unlocked the cuffs, leaving Michael to rub at his sore wrists as he himself stretched languidly, before walking idly back to his seat.

"…I understand, you know."

Michael looked up from his inspection of the newly rising welts, fixing his gaze on the man's pinstriped arm as the other half-turned to look at him, cool gaze piercing. Gary stood casually besides his chair, grey strands of hair waving idly in the slight breeze released from a small metal grating in the wall, the CIB's pathetic excuse for air conditioning. "I-"

But whatever he was about to say was abruptly cut off when the entrance door swung open with a clang, and Megalomania stomped in the door, usual dour expression streaked across his features.

"Phone call for you," he grunted at Gary, gesturing primly over his shoulder with his thumb. Gary straightened and nodded, an easy-going smile slipping back into place as he strode through the door and disappeared down the hallway behind it. Michael wouldn't know, though, seeing as the paranoid suits had chosen to blindfold him on the way in. He steadily released the tension in his shoulders, groaning loudly for the sake of his guard as Megalomania directed his gaze to him, sunglasses glinting the man's satisfaction in the overhead lights before they were switched off and the lamp once more replaced it.

Brilliant.

---

Oblivious to the fact that his so called 'client' was currently wishing he was back already, Gary strode down the metal hallway after a CIB agent, mind distracted as he was led through the maze of passages to the half-reception they had down here. If it was from who he suspected it was, (his ever-so esteemed father) it would probably mean that his 'mission' was finally done.

He couldn't wait.

For while he had enjoyed it more than he'd expected, surprisingly, and even found himself liking his temporary charge, who, while a bit temperamental, seemed to have a good heart, every second in that musty room had seemed to drag on for hours. Which was how it must have felt to Michael as well, of course. He almost felt sorry for being part of it, at that thought- but it was done with now. If, he couldn't forget the if, he was right about the phone call, the kid would be released and he himself would be able return to his office, happy as can be and with a multitude of new cases resting on his desk, waiting for his attention. He sighed contentedly at the thought as he strode finally into the boxed, windowless 'reception', the only features defining it as such the steel desk and the harried receptionist behind it.

In only a few minutes time, it'd be all over.

He almost found himself whooping with joy – an act he restrained himself from doing for the sakes of the already paranoid CIB agents entering and leaving the room through the elevators at the front - when he heard his fathers deep, boisterous voice booming down the old fashioned phone's ear piece, bombarding his ear drum and causing him to inch the phone away from his ear as he grinned down the mouth piece nevertheless.

"Theodore?"

"Here, father," he called down the phone line cheerfully, giving the receptionist a small wave and resisting the urge to laugh at her perplexed expression and slow, cautious wave back. "Have you caught him?"

"Yes, son," his father confirmed, breaking away briefly to shout something at the low muttering of voices barely audible in the background, which quietened instantly, before returning, "Alexander Hickory is securely in custody and…"

Gary froze, blood seeming to run cold for a single, heart stopping second.

_Hickory. Alexander Hickory._

"…currently being driven to the CIB head quarters this very moment, accompanied by a ten armed guards and a medic, so…"

Before he had not asked, had not_ cared_ who the man his father was chasing after was; there hadn't been any need for him to know, he'd only had to look after the kid. But now… He should have guessed. Why else would they detain Michael unless the target had a strong attachment to him? What other reason would this otherwise innocent, if not rebellious boy be needed to force the target out of hiding and into the waiting arms of the CIB?

"…Please inform Sergeant Charlston that…"

_He was Michael's father._

"Son, did you hear me? Have you got that?"

_Michael had no idea._

"Yes, I'll tell him right away."

Numbly, Gary lowered the phone, staring at the plastic casing peeling off the buttons, thoughts whirling. He barely noticed another receptionist lower her phone and nod at his escort, too distracted to even acknowledge the fact that the man left and disappeared back into the halls.

He didn't know - couldn't have known, for from what Gary'd heard, Michael thought his father was dead; he'd _aided_ in the capture of the boy's father, the boy who'd just started to trust him, who he'd started to _like-_

A distant, furious shouting reached his ears from the hallway and he slowly drew himself out of his trance, replacing the phone slowly and turning to look at the doorway, the air seeming to solidify until he felt like he was swimming in it, movements hampered, his nose and mouth smothered and struggling to draw in air. The words "get off of me, you bloody suit," "Where the hell are we- I said get off!" reached his half-dumb ears and he watched, silently, as Michael was brought into the reception, Gary's escort and the guard from the cell restraining his arms. Tearing away from their grip when they came to a halt, the boy looked around wildly, blinking at the change in light, before his eyes hit and latched upon the sight of Gary.

"What's-" he started, confusion and residue anger contorting his features into that almost permanent frown of his.

"They've dropped your charges," Gary said simply, managing a small smile as the boy's face crumpled with relief. "You're free to go."

_And there was nothing he could do._

He watched distantly as the boy whooped his enthusiasm, crossing his arms smartly and giving his guard a smug smile as said guard scowled all the more, grumbling under his breath as he took Michael by the arm and towards the escalators, to the back way out and the garage where the company cars were kept. He stayed where he was as, whacking his escort for all he was worth in an attempt to free himself, the boy ducked into the elevator and started to complain that he'd better drive him home, because he had no clue where the 'bloody hell' he was after they'd 'bloody abducted' him, and he wasn't going to end up dead in some alley because 'some suit couldn't be asked.'

Finally shaking himself after the boy's last mutters faded and the elevator doors closed, he forced himself to stretch and walk towards the stairs, hand automatically reaching into the front breast pocket of his suit as he headed back to civilization.

He needed a smoke.

**End.**

**Bewilderment**

"Whatamaheebly call it?"

She was confused.

Very confused.

Not that she wasn't used to be confused- you don't get far into the field of medical science before you find cases that are truly and simply bewildering, but this, _this-_

It was in a league of its own.

There was a small creak as her scarlet-eyed patient levered himself into a hunched, half-sitting position, composure perfect as he regarded her coolly from beneath sweat-dampened black locks; completely in spite of the fact he had just undergone life-threatening surgery and was currently laying, covered only by a sheet and the bandages wrapped around his chest, prone in a hospital bed with the knowledge that he couldn't move a foot without collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But that wasn't what confused her; **that** she could laugh away easily- wave away in two seconds flat, if pressed.

What baffled her was that battered, missing-a-gem-but-still-somehow-beautiful, _ring_ that was clutched in that worn, gloved hand.

She raised a delicate eyebrow, jade eyes slowly dragging themselves away from the loosened fingers that trapped the ring oh-so casually in their grasp to the owner, who's impassive, if slightly glazed gaze immediately caught her own. Attempting to smother the odd choking noise that was worming up her throat, she swallowed, a slender -not shaking, she was proud to admit- finger raising and curling towards herself.

"For me?"

The proud black eyebrows furrowed, outstretched hand unmoving.

She'd take that as a yes, then.

Pushing off cautiously from the wall, (you could never be too careful with medication-pumped patients, after all) she slowly approached, sharp eyes noting how his hand quivered slightly despite his efforts as she carefully reached forward and extracted the ring from his fingers. Taking all care not to make any sudden movements, she withdrew her hand, the silver cold against her palm; a small smile gracing her features as he finally let his arm fall and slid back under the covers, eyelids flitting closed as he succumbed to exhaustion.

If this was his cracked-up way of showing thanks, she thought wryly, striding the remaining distance to the bed and tucking her friend almost affectionately under the covers, it was the very least she could do to boast being the only woman to ever receive a ring from the infamous brick that was Nathaniel Briskly.

End.


End file.
